How to Quit Your Job

It brought you to tears the first time you realized you actually hate it here. Here of course being more than the physical space, your desk and cubicle. To be honest, you lasted this long solely on the coffee runs, er, bitch sessions, with your work bestie. The caffeine and anxiety mixture coursing through you allowed for some fearful productivity. Fear of being fired — or called out for making a mistake.

It was those weekly one-on-ones where you were asked what you had “cooking." In your line of deadline- and project-driven business, it’s hard to say what the next week would bring, so you never knew how to answer your balding boss when he inevitably started off Thursday morning with, “So whatcha got cooking for next week?” You made it through those monotonous hour-long meetings by the grace of your mother’s god. You don’t believe in a higher power, but you sure thank your mom for keeping you in her prayers. Everything helps when you’re slogging through Corporate America.

That first day you broke down — same day your cubicle mate Jerry found that suspicious package wrapped in brown paper by the door, which turned out to be something irrelevant to work but provided a much-needed distraction to office life — David called you into his office.

“Mary, you’re right,” he had said. “You are due for a raise.”

A week or two prior, hard to tell exactly when the way time moves here, you asked if the company had resumed raises. After working here two years in June, and through a pandemic no less, and having never been awarded a raise before, you thought it might be time to ask. Your mom always said, “Advocate for yourself, because no one else will. Except me.” She always added that last part in case you’d forgotten she’s your number one fan.

“But we don’t have it in our budget,” David continued. “You’ve done great across the board, so keep it up. Sales is having a killer quarter so maybe in September we can revisit this discussion. Remind me, OK?”

You sauntered back to your desk dejected. As a “yes” girl, you amassed a cheerful reputation. But that was not the feeling this day. Why had you taken on the extra work, stayed late, and worked weekends if it all meant pushing the raise down the road? He had said that to you before, right before the pandemic. The reasons to delay an official performance review were different, but the pattern remained.

You’re in the bathroom stall, filming a video with the intention of putting it on social media. You found a catchy sound to use as the backtrack to your pathetic, swollen face. You manage to croak out: “One week before I quit my job.” Over the next several days, you film yourself at various points, always counting down to that magical Thursday you decide is your last.

“Twelve hours before I quit my job,” you tell the camera the night before. The next morning you’re light as a cream pastry. Something weird is happening. Suddenly you don’t mind the work or those repetitive, time-suck meetings. Your eyes are glazed and rose-colored.

“So, whatcha got cooking for next week?” David asks.

You’re prepared to tell him off, but miraculously you talk about a project you’re working on. The meeting ends and you still have a job. You start the video: “I didn’t do it.” Save. But you don’t upload to social. That one’s just for you. (But you do send it to your mom, who laughs in relief that you didn’t go through with it.)

“He offered me a 12% raise,” Jerry tells you a week later. “I thought you should know.”

You’re furious. Fuming. Fumbling, you tell your work bestie you’ve got to go. You pull up a document and type it out:

“To whom it may concern,

“This letter is to inform you that as of today I am handing in my notice. Thank you for the opportunity to join this team. I am proud of the work I’ve accomplished over the last two-plus years. I will remain on for two weeks to wrap up any lingering projects.”

You hover over “send” for 40 minutes. The anticipation of the pressure from your index finger to the mouse is much like the feeling you had standing on a high-up rock overlooking the river.

Click.